


Taking Full Advantage (of Being Taken Full Advantage Of)

by nni



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, strangulation - mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nni/pseuds/nni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of him knows that this is just manipulation, that Jack is just telling him what he somehow knows he wants to hear to get his full compliance, and it spurs that quickly waning ball of anger. The other part doesn’t really care, basks in the glow of hearing Handsome Jack regard him with something he’ll pretend is pride. The next wave of boneless bliss from the chair’s intermittent injectors probably doesn’t help. He can feel the last of his resolve slither away when Jack leans in just a little closer, lips all but brushing his ear when he speaks again.</p><p>“Let’s try this one more time,” he purrs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fingerprints a Perfect Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceowl/gifts).



> who gave me the kick in the ass i needed to go anywhere with this thing

When Rhys walks into the wide open office, bootheels clicking on some sort of flooring six figures better than what tiles the rest of Helios, it's really no surprise that Jack's desk is set a few steps up from the rest of the floor, a stage in front of this vast expanse of stars. Elpis is stationed dead centre in the wall of windows positioned behind the desk, huge and glowing and gorgeous. It's all a power play, daring whatever unfortunate underling finds themselves in this cavern of a room to focus on anything other than the scene set up before them, a challenge to tear their eyes away from the once and future king and take in the rest of the carefully  constructed atmosphere.

 

“Holy shit,” Rhys mutters, arms loosely crossed over his torso and eyes drinking in as much of the view as he can. “It's-- god, it's--”

 

“Beautiful? I know.” He jumps a little- he'd been too enthralled with the dazzling (and honestly sort of terrifying) swath of space to notice Jack sidling up beside him from where he'd been admiring his trophy case.

 

When his eyes slide over to catch sight of his boss - _the_ boss- Jack's gaze is focused decidedly on him, not the moon or stars or crushing void pressing up against the window, but he's not talking about Rhys. He can't be, and Rhys knows it. Hot? Sure. Sexy? Why not. Hell, even “pretty,” when he's feeling particularly generous, but somehow he just knows in his gut that “beautiful” is something Jack reserves for his weapons. His plans. His own regrettably handsome face. Mask. Whatever.

 

Rhys’ brow knits in confusion before he catches on to Jack's line of sight. His hand floats to the base of his own throat as realisation slowly dawns, fingers ghosting over deep blooms of purple that he knows peek out just above the suddenly too tight collar of his shirt. That he knows would match up perfectly to Jack's fingertips like a blueprint. A craftsman admiring his handiwork.

 

Jack is leaning casually up against the desk, the lip digging into the backs of his thighs until he shifts to rest his hip against the edge, turning more toward Rhys. One arm unfolds from its place across his chest to slap metal fingers away from Rhys’ throat, flick his chin up to expose more of the pale skin. For someone who loves hearing his own voice as much as Jack, he’s damn near silent as he inspects the marks, toying at the the collar of his shirt to get a better view, and Rhys isn’t sure which version of him is more intimidating. It doesn’t get any clearer when Jack finally speaks.

 

“Down,” he says, an unnecessary command when his palm pushes flat against Rhys’s chest and shoves him into that big, beautiful chair. Suddenly the world goes soft and Rhys could swear he’s floating, arching weakly up off his seat. Jack gently presses a sneaker (weirdly casual compared to his 80 layers of flair) between his legs like an anchor, but he has no intention of going anywhere. Not when everything feels so light and airy and _fantastic._ The look of satisfaction that settles on Jack’s face is entirely too smug. “Feels pretty good, huh?”

 

“Amazing,” Rhys nods, eyes sliding shut. “Not sure why you’d ever leave the office.” He chuckles lightly and sinks back further into the plush cushions, like he could disappear in there forever and _not_ be idly worrying about the fact that Jack’s eyes have never left his throat.

 

“That’d be the contact activated dopamine injectors. Pret-ty sweet.” Fingers snap in his face and he jolts, eyes flying back open and arms gripping on the rests, Jack’s foot pressing just a little more heavily. “Now listen up, cupcake. You’re probably wondering why I let you off with some pretty little souvenirs instead of finishing the job right then and there, yeah?”

 

His mouth opens to respond, but the warning glance he gets from Jack is enough to cut off any noise before it makes its way out. He’s not sure he’ll be so lucky next time, that Jack won’t make good on the threat imprinted on his neck and add his cybernetics to his macabre cabinet of curiosities. Really rather not find out either, he’s had enough near death experiences for the time being thanks, so he opts instead to nod once and keep his gazed fixed on Jack’s face. Baring his belly to the leader of the pack and trying to tamp down the way his ears heat up in embarrassment of his cowardly submission.

 

Jack grins and slaps him on the cheek, and he’s sort of proud of the way he manages not to flinch. “Y’see, Rhysie, it’s a sort of ehhh-” his hands flail around a bit like he’s trying to find the right words- “insurance policy. On your loyalty. A reminder that you. Belong. To _me.”_ He leans in close here, close enough that Rhys can feel the heat of his breath, the weird angry energy thrumming through him in spite of his deceptively calm mask. The only indication at all that he might be anything other than level is in the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes seem just a little harder when they finally lock on Rhys’.

 

Which is unfortunate, because Rhys can feel his own righteous anger burning, but never hot enough to overpower Jack’s. He’s a _person_ , okay, he doesn’t _belong_ to anybody, no matter how much of his life he’s dedicated to them. No matter how many times he’s shown unflinching, deeply questionable loyalty to them. No matter how many times they probably both would’ve died by now if it wasn’t for them. This time he can’t bite his tongue, or maybe won’t, because he still has at least some dignity left. “I don’t-”

 

The smack on his cheek is harder this time, enough to sting, and he puffs out his rage as he sets his jaw and turns to Jack with steely defiance. He imagines his silence as defiance, at least, because it’s much less humiliating than obedience. Dignity never was his strong suit.

 

“Ah ah ah, pumpkin. I don’t like repeating myself.” Jack’s voice is light and flippant, almost conversational, but that anger still clings to the tension in his muscles, ebbing though it may be. His hand slides down Rhys's jaw, wraps around his neck, fingers flexing with restraint on their signature. Rhys grips the armrests harder, pushes back against the chair and Jack darts out a hand to keep it from rolling away, but it’s like his mouth is muzzled. “Good boy,” Jack praises his lack of rebuttal, voice dipping low and smooth as it beats against his ear, and he can feel a traitorous warmth spilling over in his chest and pooling low in his stomach.

 

Part of him knows that this is just manipulation, that Jack is just telling him what he somehow knows he wants to hear to get his full compliance, and it spurs that quickly waning ball of anger. The other part doesn’t really care, basks in the glow of hearing Handsome Jack regard him with something he’ll pretend is pride. The next wave of boneless bliss from the chair’s intermittent injectors probably doesn’t help. He can feel the last of his resolve slither away when Jack leans in just a little closer, lips all but brushing his ear when he speaks again.

 

“Let’s try this one more time,” he purrs. His foot slides from the chair and a knee takes its place, a hand gripping Rhys’ thigh possessively with an edge of threat. "Who do you belong to?"

 

Okay, he can do this. He’s not an idiot, if it means the difference between living another day and having the life choked out of him, he can swallow down the remnants of his pride and play along. Channeling some of that  good old corporate placation, he breathes in, grits his teeth, breaths out. “You.”

 

It’s easier than he’d like.

 

“Veeery good, princess. That’s what I like to hear.” He can feel Jack’s sly smile graze where his cheek is red from a little more than its rough treatment earlier. Prays Jack doesn’t feel the way he twitches when his knee slips more snugly into the crook of his legs. “And good boys get rewarded. Don’t they, kitten?”

 

Rhys groans and twitches again, and when Jack laughs it sounds like honey.


	2. Positive Reinforcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE NOTE:** I didn't put a tag for drugged sex, because I wasn't really sure it applied, but the dopamine chair is definitely put to good use. Everything is consensual, though!
> 
> So here's that second chapter. Enjoy your porn.

“C’mon, kid,” Jack growls, squeezing his leg just a little tighter in warning, “you know when I ask a question, I expect an answer.”

 

“Yes,” and the word sounds a little too eager to Rhys’ own ears. But by now he’s too drenched in enough praise and what must be the best hormone cocktail in the galaxies to bring himself to care.

 

Jack’s grin spreads just a little wider, but he tuts, lips so teasingly close to his own now. “Yes, what?” he asks, and each syllable drips with control.

 

Rhys is taken out of the mood for just a second, because he.. um.. he’s actually not sure what Jack is asking for, here. Like he’s supposed to be following some script but he’s forgotten his line. He licks his lips, like he can somehow taste the answer, doesn’t notice the way Jack’s eyes drop to watch his tongue, and finds the confidence to say _something_. “Yes.. please?” he ventures, trying to find the right blend of breathless and like he knows what the hell he’s doing.

 

This laugh is almost smoother than the last, rolling from his chest and over his tongue, fanning the fire building in Rhys’ stomach. “That’ll do, princess,” Jack allows, and Rhys braces himself for lips crashing against his. What he gets instead, is a view of Jack’s carefully styled hair as he ducks his head to suck viciously at his neck. Teeth tug at the delicate skin, and he can tell he’s going to have another bruise, probably even deeper than the others, perfectly in the center of his circular tattoo. “In case you needed another reminder,” Jack rumbles against his skin, and he hears himself moan, hands clenching into the fabric of that ridiculous jacket in an iron grip.

 

Normally, he’d probably be a little more indignant at that, a little more embarrassed of that sound, but the way he almost thinks he hears Jack moan in return, the muttered “atta boy”s and “theeere you go”s sweep away his ability (or maybe his will) to feel anything but _more_. He wants to tear Jack’s coat off, start working his way through the barriers that keep him from feeling skin under his fingers, but Jack’s lost in his work.

 

He’s got one hand unbuttoning Rhys’ shirt, tossing his tie to the side to assault his collarbone with more lips and teeth and tongue. The other is wrapped firm around his neck, thumb pressing into the bruise he can already feel forming like he’s worried it’ll disappear if he diverts his attention.

 

“Jack,” he tries, but the way Jack only grunts in return, biting down harder and causing him to hiss through his teeth, makes him think maybe he got the wrong message. “Jack-- your jacket-- I want--” Finally Jack pulls back, and the grin plastered over his face goes straight to his groin, coaxing him to harden that last little bit with a gulp.

 

“Ohoho, someone’s gettin’ eager, huh?” Jack teases, but he’s already shrugging out of his coat and stripping down to just his pants and garishly yellow Hyperion undershirt. Rhys’ shirt is quick to follow, tossed carelessly somewhere in the vast expanse of the office, and Jack’s fingers get to work on his fly as he leans in, kicking at Rhys’ feet to get him to lose the shoes.

 

When he finally gets to kiss him, _properly_ kiss him, not uselessly mouthing at his ear while Jack works his neck, it’s better than any of his wettest dreams. Jack tastes like a summer storm, wet and warm and heady with the promise of something thunderous, with lightning cracking through his veins. Rhys moans against him and raises his hips at Jack’s urging, pants and boxer briefs quickly ripped away, bottom lip sucked between teeth and a smooth tongue rolling languidly across. When Jack starts working at his own fly then, Rhys takes a moment to toe off his socks, because he’ll be damned if that’s the only thing he wears if he’s finally going to fuck Handsome Jack. Or-- be fucked by? or-- he’s not really sure, but when Jack’s hand wraps around his dick he finds that he doesn’t really care.

 

It’s a little rough with the lack of lube (although he wouldn’t put it past Jack to have some stashed in the office, and he tries not to think of  what debauchery this desk has probably seen), but he’s been leaking enough that it helps smooth the ride. It’s probably tempered, too, by his surprise that Jack’s focus is on him for the moment, the hardness in his own pants untouched, but it’s probably all a part of his obsession with power. With being in control. But hell, he’s not about to complain, not when the rough pad of a thumb presses over his tip and another round of dopamine floods his system, hips jerking up with-- well, _one_ of those moans belonged to him. His eyes crack open in interest, and they’re met with something gorgeous.

 

Jack’s hair is tousled, the tops of his pecs dusted with a smattering of hair, a light sheen of sweat, and a blush creeping up his neck. In a brief moment of clarity, Rhys wishes he could see beneath the mask, see the way Jack’s cheeks must be lit up to match, but that train of thought is halted abruptly with a twist of Jack’s wrist and a broken groan from his own throat.

 

“Up, up up up,” Jack commands, releasing his dick with one last twist and slapping him on the thigh but with much less malice than before. “Switch me.” Rhys is hesitant to leave the chair with its promise of new highs, honestly not even sure if his legs will hold him, but apparently it doesn’t really matter. He’s yanked up roughly, shoved over the desk as Jack sinks into his chair with a satisfied hum and rummages through a concealed drawer.

 

Yep, definitely right, definitely a hidden stash because that is _definitely_ a lube-slick finger sliding into him, doesn’t even have time to congratulate himself for being right before the finger twists and he cries out. He can practically feel Jack smirk behind him. The bastard could’ve at least warmed it up first.

 

Jack prepares him more thoroughly than he would’ve expected, three thick fingers wrenching moans from him by the time he’s done.. And yes, that’s probably to both their benefit, but the way the air shifts, the way his own reactions seem to draw something out of Jack like blood from a wound, he thinks maybe he’s enjoying it too. He’s sort of dizzy on the thought, almost misses the “ready, kitten?” Jack shoots, mixing in with his constant stream of disparaging and encouragement, and probably would’ve if it wasn’t for the hand that wraps around his hip at the same time. He manages to lift his head enough to twist around and see Jack, cock in hand, smearing a bit of extra lube on himself to ease the way, and they moan in tandem.

 

“Oh god yes,” he breathes, well beyond the point of dignity, feeling like if he doesn’t get off soon it’ll be the death of him. He barely gets the words out before he’s rocked backwards into Jack’s lap, cock hot and sticky-slick pressing up against him.

 

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” Jack grinds out like he’s being put upon, rolling his hips up and nudging the last of the breath from Rhys’ lungs. He’d been expecting to stay bent in half over the table, but he can definitely work with this. He takes a deep breath and lowers himself down, apparently not quick enough for Jack’s liking, because when he’s far enough that Jack can stop guiding himself in, his hands dig into Rhys’ hips, barreling him down as Jack pistons up.

 

Apparently the entire surface of the chair is lined with those glorious injectors, because when his hands clamp down on the armrests he feels that increasingly familiar rush blurring all the edges, hears Jack’s head hit the back of the chair even over the moan that drowns out his own. Rhys is still swimming, sweat clinging to his neck, dripping from the hair that spills over his forehead, so it’s no surprise that Jack is the first to move. His hips roll, lifting Rhys and encouraging him to start his own rhythm, one hand smoothing up his back.

 

“C’mon, princess, you’ve been so good so far. Don’t make me do all the work here,” he jibes, but the usual edge is gone from his voice, replaced with something bordering desire. But Rhys is in no position to judge, no matter how much he wants to gloat about seeing Handsome Jack so close to desperate, so instead he rocks his hips, picking up the pace with each pass. Everything is cranked up to 11; the volume, the hazy pleasure welling up and pulsing through him, even Jack’s ever-present commentary seems to tip more to the praise side of the scales. Little victories in the form of “holy shit kitten, knew this couldn’t be your first rodeo, heh,” or “knew you’d look good bouncing on my dick, and daddy’s always right, kiddo.” Maybe Rhys is letting all this praise go to his head, but he could swear it even sounds like encouragement when Jack’s one liners go sort of nonverbal.

 

He loses track of time, grinding down on his boss’ lap, and really, who could blame him? But at some point, when he feels so high-strung but weightless that he absently wonders if this is what it’s like to die, Jack’s hand wraps around his cock again, pumping out a sharp cry. “Not that this isn’t just fan-fucking-tastic, but c’mon kitten, daddy's got shit to do,” he grunts, and the little flare of shame is overwhelmed by a rush of arousal. Teeth clamp into his neck again, and somewhere distantly Rhys thinks that Jack may have a thing for that tattoo, sinking in before he purrs, “Go on and come for me, baby.”

 

And Jesus Christ, Rhys is glad he’d held out so long, because that is possibly the best thing he’s ever heard. He comes over Jack’s hand and his own stomach with a shout, he’s not even sure if there are any words to it, but he wouldn’t be surprised (although no less mortified) if Jack’s name had been buried somewhere in there. The way Rhys’ muscles clench, the way he tenses up, are apparently all that Jack needs before he’s chasing his own end, thrusting up violently a few more times before spilling with a growl, teeth still baring into Rhys’ neck as his tongue laves over the skin.

 

They’re both out of breath and panting, waiting for the come down, for reality to shift back into focus, and Rhys dares to let himself stay seated in Jack’s lap until he trusts his legs to hold him. Jack, surprisingly, allows it.

 

Once they’ve gathered themselves enough to move, albeit slowly, cleaning up and pulling clothes over aching muscles, Rhys finds the courage to clear his throat and speak. “So that was--”

 

“Positive reinforcement,” Jack answers before he can even say anything, casual as Rhys wishes he could sound.

 

“I’m-- um-- what?”

 

With the way Jack looks at him, you’d think he was trying to teach a dog English. “Po-si-tive re-in-force-ment,” he says again, each syllable unnecessarily drawn out and emphasised. “Insurance policy. Remember? Or are you honestly that stupid?” He asks, and Rhys hisses as he flicks the tender spot on his neck. His organic hand rubs at it gingerly while Jack cackles. “A little somethin’ to go with that. The icing on the cake,” he says with a wink before clapping his hands together. “You remember your place, and we can do some great things together, kid. Better make sure you’re well friggin’ rested, ‘cause I want you here bright and early tomorrow morning. Now get the hell out of my office.”

 

“Tomorrow morning! Right, I’ll uh- hah- see you.. then?” he says, still lost in a mist of confusion and subsiding arousal. He’s nearly tripping over his pants as he’s shoved towards the door, but luckily the walk is ridiculously long enough that he’s got them (as well as the shoes and socks that are haphazardly thrown his direction in lieu of any actual response) on before he actually reaches the exit.

 

When he’s finally outside, he slumps against the wall, groaning and wishing he could will the fast travel station just a little closer. The hallway looks so intimidating right now. After a minute of futilely willing the machine over to him, he slowly makes his way down the corridor, soreness and exciting new pains starting to settle in.

 

It’s not.. ideal, whatever this is, not by a long shot, even if the Rhys of three months ago is quietly freaking out that he _slept with Handsome fucking Jack_. Present Rhys is trying to convince himself that it was worth it. It’s a blow to his pride, but his sense of self-preservation is already bandaging that wound. He can work with this, work around it, find a way to thrive instead of just subsist, but for now, he’s content to find the steam of a shower and the warm embrace of his bed. Those problems are for future Rhys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah, disgustingly invested in this stupid ship, first fic about them, blah blah
> 
> comments, etc. always welcome, annnnd hope you enjoyed!


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